Strong Enough
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Set in S7, House tells Cuddy he wants to go back on Ketamine.
1. Chapter 1

It was House's idea to go for a walk.

Cuddy never suggested such things: What if they got caught up in the moment, walked too far? What if his leg began hurting him? Would he ever admit that he needed to take a break, to sit down, maybe even needed to call a cab?

But they had just finished dinner—a wonderful, flirty dinner, where they had shared a bottle of wine, held hands, laughed a lot—and it was a crisp, starry night and Rachel was sleeping over at Arlene's and when House suggested the walk in the park, Cuddy couldn't resist.

So they were strolling, and House had his arm around her, keeping her warm, and they nearly had the park to themselves and it was all so perfect and romantic that she was actually allowing herself ridiculous flights of fancy: _Maybe we can get married in this park_. _Rachel can wear a crown of daisies and the bridesmaids can carry wildflowers and we can put the chuppah under that tree. . .Wait, would House even go for a chuppah?. . ._

But her reverie was disrupted by a thunderous, stampeding sound behind her—it startled them both—and then she saw the source of the sound: A young man, in a dark hoodie, charging toward them. And before she could react, before she even knew what had happened, the man snatched her purse and took off.

"My purse!" she yelled, pointing.

On instinct, House dropped his cane and began to run.

Adrenalin took him several yards before the reality of the searing pain in his leg set in and he nearly crumpled to the ground, doubled over.

"House!" she said, running up to him. "Are you out of your mind?"

His face was red and his eyes were closed and he was grimacing in agony.

"Your purse," he gasped.

"House. . .I don't care about my purse. You can't go running after people like that!"

"Why not?" he said, still trying to catch his breath. "It's not like he had a gun. Guys with guns don't snatch and run."

"You know I'm not talking about that."

He was in pain and upset—breathing through his nose like a caged bull. "We should call 911," he said, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone.

But it was unnecessary because two police officers, in uniform, were approaching them, carrying Cuddy's bag.

"Is this yours, ma'am?" one said.

"Yes, thank you!" Cuddy said, relieved.

"The kid dropped it and took off when he saw us. Did he get anything?"

Cuddy looked through her purse.

"He took my cash. About $120. Not my credit cards, thank God."

At that point, one of the cops noticed that House was bent over.

"Did he hurt you, sir? Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" House snarled.

"He's fine," Cuddy said quickly. "Old …sports injury."

The cop picked up House's cane, which was lying on the grass.

"Is this yours?" he said.

"Brilliant deduction," House said., grabbing it. "They should promote you to detective immediately."

"House!" Cuddy scolded.

Then she turned back to the cops, "Sorry officers. We're both pretty upset."

"It's okay, ma'am. Sorry the guy got away. Do you want to fill out a police report?"

"I'd rather just go home and forget the whole thing, if that's an option."

The cops looked at each other, nodded.

"Sure. We'll patrol the park for a few hours just in case he comes back."

"Thanks again officers. I thought my bag was a goner!"

"You're welcome, ma'am. Good night."

She and House walked in tense silence back to the car. His limp was noticeably more severe, but she didn't say anything, for fear of agitating him further.

"Are you okay to drive?" she asked, cautiously.

"I'm fine," he said, getting in without bothering to open the door for her like he usually did.

She opened the door herself, buckled her seat belt, looked at him. They drove for a bit.

"Hey," she said finally.

"What?" he answered, testily.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She held up her hands defensively.

"Okay, if you say so…"

There was a pause.

"_Sports_ injury?" he growled.

_So that was it._

"I…I thought it would be easier than explaining your condition to a couple of cops. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. . ."

"You're ashamed of me," he said, his knuckles getting white where he gripped the steering wheel.

"That is so not true!"

"You're ashamed to have an ineffectual boyfriend who can't even run after some kid who snatches your purse."

"House, no. That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes!"

They had pulled up in front of her house, but neither of them moved.

"House, look at me."

He turned to her, a somewhat defiant look on his face.

"I know you're upset. Because even the smartest men I know have this ridiculous, useless machismo. But I love you. And I'm proud of you. And I never want to hear you say otherwise—ever again."

"But I can't protect you," he mumbled.

"I don't need protection," Cuddy said. "I'm not some helpless damsel in distress."

"I'm not saying you are…" he said. "It's just that any other guy…"

"I don't want any other guy," she said, taking his hands. "I want you."

He swallowed a bit, managed a weak smile.

"Do you mind if I…can I just sit here for a few minutes alone?"

She looked at him sadly, sighed.

"Okay," she said. "But not too long."

She gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek, went inside, and got ready for bed.

About half an hour later, he joined her.

"Sorry about that," he said, taking off his pants and shirt and climbing into bed beside her. "Caveman moment."

"It's okay," she said, cuddling him. "If I'm allowed to think I look fat once a month, you're allowed to have your moments, too."

He shook his head.

"I can never understand that. Your body is perfection."

"So is yours," she said pointedly, turning to kiss him.

"I see what you did there," he said, smiling.

Idly, he began to caress her.

"No man has ever turned me on like you, Gregory House," she said, climbing on top of him. "Got that? And it's not even close."

####

They had great, especially acrobatic sex that night and she thought that would be the end of it until a few days later, over lunch in the cafeteria, when he looked down at the table and said cautiously, "I'm thinking of trying Ketamine again."

She stopped chewing her salad and stared at him.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Is this about the other night?"

"Sort of," he admitted.

"House, I thought we resolved that."

"We did," he said. "But why not try the Ketamine again? I mean, it worked the last time, for a while at least."

"We both know that it gets less effective every time you use it. Last time it lasted 10 weeks, this time it might last eight. Or not at all."

"Even being pain free for one day is better than not being pain free at all. Besides, I have a good feeling about this."

"A good feeling? You're a scientist. You don't go off of 'good feelings'."

"This time I do. Last time I took Ketamine I was an addict, miserable. Now I'm happy, drug free, regularly getting laid." He cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe it'll work even better."

"But. . .it's a dangerous procedure, not without its risks."

"I'm aware of that."

"And when it wears off?"

"Then it wears off."

"But what if you. . ."

He squinted at her.

"What if I what?"

"I mean, what if you. . ."

"Go back on Vicodin once the pain returns?"

She looked at him.

"Yes."

"That won't happen."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. Cuddy, trust me on this. Please."

She inhaled.

"Alright. If this is really what you want. We'll admit you next week—have Dr. Singh do the. . ."

"No," he said quickly.

"_No_? I just told you that you could do it."

"I know. I already called Stan Sanders over at Richmond General. They're going to do the infusions."

"What? Richmond is a six hour drive…why?"

"Because if it doesn't work, I don't want people hovering, worrying, feeling sorry for me. And that includes you."

Cuddy folded her arms.

"I don't like this."

"It's not really your call," he said. "Well, except for the part where I need to take a week off from work."

"Then I'll go with you," she said.

He gave a tiny smile.

"What part of 'I don't want you hovering' didn't you understand?"

"You'll be in a coma. You won't even know I'm hovering."

"All the more reason for you to just stay here. At the hospital. With your daughter. Where you're _needed_."

"But I. . ." she pouted a bit, involuntarily. "I'm going to miss you."

House laughed. The look on his face was one of adoration tinged with pride: _She's going to miss me_.

He took her hands.

"I'll be back in a week," he said. "Hopefully with two functioning legs."

#####

He left for Richmond a few days later and then, a week after that, he knocked on her door.

She was so happy to see him, standing there, looking no worse for the wear, that she leapt into his arms.

They kissed, several times and unexpectedly, she found herself crying, getting his neck and collar wet with her tears.

"I guess you _did_ miss me," he said, ironically.

"I was worried about you, House. I feel like I can breathe again."

"Worry no more, m'lady. I'm home." And he bowed gallantly.

"And your leg?" she said.

"I'll still be needing this cane," he said sadly. Then he broke into a huge grin. "For BATON TWIRLING practice!" He spun the cane a few times, then dramatically threw it across the room, toward an open closet. It knocked over a lamp before falling well short of its intended target.

"Oops," he said. "That looked much cooler in my head."

"Really?" she said, so excited and nervous, she didn't even care that the lamp was broken.

"I mean, there's still _some_ pain," he said. "A 3 at worst. Two weeks ago it was an 8. Back when I was jonesing, it was a solid 10."

"House, I'm so happy for you," she said, kissing him again. "I just don't want us to get ahead of ourselves here. Let's just enjoy this for what it is. One good day at a time."

He picked her up in such a swift, strong motion she actually gasped.

"Don't harsh my mellow, Cuddles," he said, carrying her to the bedroom.

#####

Every day, House's leg got stronger.

He was going to physical therapy at the hospital, regularly running on the treadmill, doing leg lifts with weights at home, and she could see how happy he was, how carefree. But she worried.

Despite insisting that he knew the treatment was likely short-lived, he wasn't acting like a man on borrowed time. He was acting like his painlessness was permanent.

He would roughhouse with Rachel on the floor, letting her climb all over him, spinning her around, throwing her in the air.

"Be careful!" Cuddy would say, watching them.

"Again!" Rachel would say, red-faced, giddy, and out of breath.

"The kid says, 'again,'" House said, shrugging like it was out of his hands and hoisting her in the air. "Who am I to deny her?"

One day, he grabbed Cuddy from behind when she was doing dishes, turned her around and started kissing her up against the kitchen counter.

"I had no idea the sight of me doing dishes was such a turn on," she laughed.

"Shhhh," he said, kissing her throat and between her breasts, getting her excited.

"Maybe we should take this to the bedroom," she breathed.

"No," he said. "Here." He reached under her dress, pulled down her panties, felt between her legs.

"My God," he said, feeling how wet she already was.

"House," she groaned. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He picked her up. On instinct, she wrapped her legs around him and he was fucking her, using his thigh muscles to keep her aloft against the counter, thrusting deeply and rhythmically inside her. In their year together, they'd had all sorts of sex, in all sorts of positions. But never standing, never like this. It felt exciting, forbidden. She came quickly and loudly, and he was right behind her.

Then they both slid to the kitchen floor—sweaty, out of breath, laughing a bit.

"Go Ketamine," Cuddy said, with an ironic pump her fist.

Like all men, House always looked exceedingly proud of himself after giving a woman a great orgasm. Today, he looked prouder than usual.

"You liked that huh?" he said, cockily.

"It was okay," she chuckled, putting her head on his shoulder.

####

"Wake up, lazy pants!" House said, swatting her lightly with a pillow. She poked open an eye.

He was standing there, jogging in place, dressed in baggy shorts and running shoes.

"What time is it?" she said, grabbing the clock off the nightstand. Then she groaned. "7 am? I didn't think you knew there _was_ a 7 am."

"The sun is shining—well, will be soon. The birds are chirping. And the running path won't exercise itself."

Cuddy pulled the covers over her head.

"Marina doesn't get here until 8."

"Incorrect. I called her and told her to come early. She's fixing Rachel's breakfast as we speak."

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_. Get dressed and get ready to get your ass kicked by your _incredibly fast_ boyfriend."

So she got dressed and they ran together. She kept watching him for any signs of pain or weakness, but there were none. He sprinted ahead of her, eagerly, running in place while he waited for her to catch up. His gallop was swift and graceful and she had brief flashes to the boy she knew at Michigan, the brilliant mind who was also a brilliant athlete.

"Let's see someone try to swipe your purse now," he said, with an out of breath grin.

####

"House, what's this?" Cuddy said a few days later, brandishing the offending object angrily.

"Ooh, I know this one!" House said. "It's a cane."

"It's _your_ cane."

"Wow. You're as good as detective boy."

"Why did I find it in the trash?"

"Because I threw it away?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't need it."

"House. It's been five weeks. The Ketamine only lasted 10 weeks last time. And we both acknowledged the fact that it's rarely as effective the second time around."

"I know, but I feel better this time."

She folded her arms.

"It's not like you to be so…"

"Optimistic?"

"I was going to say, unrealistic."

"Cuddy, can't you just be happy for me and stop reminding me of my imminent decrepitude?" he said, putting his arms around her.

She sighed.

"Okay," she said. "But I'm putting the cane in the closet. All the way in the back of the closet. You won't even know it's there."

House gave a half shrug.

"If you insist," he said. "It might come in handy as a hockey stick one day."

She shook her head, concerned, and put the cane in the back of the closet.

_To be continued__…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Forgot to mention last time that this fic came from a prompt from my Sister From Another Mister, aka Z the Wonder Pole. Her prompt was: What if House went back on Ketamine during his relationship with Cuddy? This chapter borrows a tiny bit from an episode you're all familiar with. But it would be spoilerish to say which one. No copyright infringement intended. As always, I do not profit from my fan fics, except for in friendship, love, and the occasional hater. xo, atd**

She began to notice his deterioration in tiny ways.

One day at the hospital, they were waiting for the elevator to go up to the third floor when he said, brightly, "Race you!" and sprinted toward the stairwell.

She expected him to be waiting for her when the elevator opened, looking at his watch, affecting an air of impatient boredom, but instead, he arrived a minute later, a slightly concerned look on his face.

"Back-up on the second floor," he said. "Those nurses move like turtles."

That was a lie and they both knew it. The stairwell was almost always empty.

The next morning, he didn't wake her up early to go running.

When she looked at her alarm clock, it was 7:30.

"Hey," she whispered. "We running this morning?"

"Rain in the forecast," he said, curling his pillow over his ear and turning away from her.

Cuddy looked at the window—bright sun was peaking through the curtains.

The next day, she saw him limping down the hallway at work.

"You okay?" she said.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "I must've pulled a muscle or something. It's _possible _I've been pushing myself a little too hard."

"That wouldn't be like you at all," she cracked, and they exchanged an uneasy smile.

Two days later, however, his limp was so pronounced he was almost painful to look at. Any credible doctor would suggest a cane, or even a wheelchair.

She followed him to his office.

"House," she said. "The Ketamine has worn off."

The look on his face was one of both fear and confusion.

"But that's impossible," he said.

"Why is it impossible?"

His eyes widened.

"I mean, um, it's only been seven weeks!"

"House, we always knew this was a possibility."

He put his head in his hands.

"It doesn't make sense," he said, almost to himself.

"What?"

He looked up.

"Nothing. I…I guess you're right.

"I'm so sorry."

He swallowed hard.

"Yeah, me too."

###

That night, he called her.

"Where have you been?" she said. "I've been worried sick about you."

"I'm going to stay at my place tonight, if that's okay with you."

"Your place?"

(He hadn't stayed at his apartment, or referred to it as "his place" for five months.)

"But why?" she said.

"I'm miserable," he said. "And I don't want to take it out on you or the kid."

"House, you're supposed to share your pain with the people who love you. That's sort of the how this whole thing works."

"You once said that we average our misery," House said. "But I don't want you anywhere near my misery tonight. It's toxic. Please just let me deal with this on my own."

"House, no. . ."

"Cuddy, please. If you love me, give me one night to punch some walls and rage against the unfairness of the world."

"At home," she said, reluctantly. "Not at a bar?"

"Not at a bar."

"And you promise you won't take any…"

"Jesus, Cuddy, why do you think that all roads lead to me going back on Vicodin?"

"I don't _always_ think that. This is a rather extreme circumstance."

"Can you just fucking trust me—for once?"

She recoiled a bit, at the anger in his voice.

"I do trust you," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well I'm the one who's sorry," he said, hanging up.

But 15 minutes later, he called back.

"I'm an asshole," he said, chastened.

"No you're not. You're in pain."

"This is why I need a night alone. I hate myself when I'm like this. I hurt the people I love."

"House, I just want to be there for you."

"Then let me be. Just for tonight. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, reluctantly.

"I love you."

"I love you, too," she muttered, and stared helplessly at the phone.

###

Cuddy was completely useless that night. Her mind kept drifting to House. His impulse not to let his anger affect the ones he loved was a generous one, but what about hurting himself? There was no one better at self-destruction. He could be passed out cold on the floor or even cutting himself. Or maybe he had lied. Maybe he'd gone to a bar, gotten drunk, picked a fight, and was lying someplace in an alley. She shuddered at the thought.

And then something occurred to her: She had his cane.

He would need his cane, obviously, just to get around. She could check in on him, under the guise of returning it. Maybe he'd see it for the ploy it was, but hell, it was better than sitting around the house slowly driving herself crazy.

So she called Julia, asked if she could drop off Rachel for the night, and drove to his apartment.

She felt uneasy as she stood outside his door. She had been feeling so close to House these past few months, so wonderfully merged with him, but now it seemed like he was miles away. What if he got angry at her? Screamed? Accused her of not trusting him? Kicked her out?

_Tough shit_, she thought stubbornly. _My peace of mind that he's okay is more important than his ridiculous lone wolf routine_.

So she knocked.

No answer. She knocked again, more loudly this time. Still no answer.

"House!" she yelled. "House!"

Now, of course, she began to panic a bit. She reached into her purse, found the spare key he had given her, and opened the door herself.

"House!" she said, entering the living room, which was empty. "Where are you? You're scaring me!"

No answer.

And then she heard a faint sound, a groaning of some sort, coming from the bathroom.

She barged in.

What she saw was so horrific, it took a moment for her to process it completely.

House was lying in the bathtub, coated in sweat and blood, shivering. His leg was splayed open, he had scans taped to the wall. He appeared to be doing some sort of self-surgery.

"Oh my God," she said, rushing to him.

He looked at her, barely able to focus.

"Oh my God," she repeated.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, dialed the hospital's ER.

"This is Dr. Cuddy. I need someone to send an ambulance to Dr. House's apartment right way. It's an emergency." And before House could protest, she gave his address and hung up.

"House, what the hell is going on here?"

"You were supposed to stay home," he said, through chattering teeth.

"Thank God I didn't. Please tell me what's happening here. Are you operating on _yourself?_"

House licked his lips, which were turning a bit blue, and tried hard to stay conscious. He felt light-headed.

"I didn't take Ketamine," he admitted. "I've been injecting myself with an experimental drug. It's called Compound CS-804."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open.

"Are you suicidal?" she said. "That drug hasn't even made it to safety trials yet."

"I thought it was going to work," he said. "It _was _working. But there were unintended side effects. Like, well, dying. The rats were riddled with tumors."

She grabbed the scan off the wall. The leg had three tumors.

"This is your leg," she said, her voice quavering as she unsuccessfully fought off tears.

He looked at her.

"Please don't cry," he pleaded. "Please. I can't deal with this if you cry."

She inhaled sharply, tried to contain herself.

"You're excising tumors?" she said.

"Yes. I already got one of them. They're all close to the surface. Maybe you can call off your dogs, do the rest of the surgery yourself. I can walk you through it"—he gave a queasy laugh—"no pun intended."

"House, are you out of your mind? You can barely stay conscious. And doing a surgery in a bathtub is a recipe for all sorts of disasters: Bleed-outs, post-op complications, infections."

"It's a very sterile environment. Well, _was_."

"I'm not doing it."

"You can't take me to PPTH!"

"Watch me!"

"The surgeons there are idiots. They'll just hack away at the muscle until my leg becomes as useless as they are."

Cuddy closed her eyes. In truth, cutting off House's leg would be a blessing in disguise. He'd be pain free. He could get a great prosthetic. They'd never have to deal with this insanity ever again. But of course, it was also his greatest fear.

"I won't let them do that," she said.

"You promise?" he said, his eyes at half-mast.

"I promise."

There was a loud knock on the door as the ambulance attendants arrived. Even they seemed a little freaked out when they saw the hospital's world famous diagnostician lying in a pool of his own blood in the bathtub.

"Easy there, we got you, Dr. House," they said, carefully placing him onto the gurney.

Cuddy rode with House in the ambulance, holding his hand. His face was clammy and his blood pressure was low. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness. She squeezed his hand.

"Stay with me," she said.

At the hospital, she bulldozed through protocol and got House to the top of the surgery list. Then she woke up her two best surgeons—Drs. Hardy and Hillman—and called them in.

"I'm not on call," Dr. Hardy said, annoyed.

"You are now," she replied.

When the doctors scrubbed up, Cuddy rolled up her sleeves and got washed right beside them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Hardy said, eyeing her.

"I'm observing the surgery," she said.

"Loved ones observe the surgery from up there," he said, pointing to the observation booth. "Not the OR."

"I want to be able to stop you if you're cutting away too much of the muscle."

"I'll only cut away as much of the muscle as necessary."

"Good. Then we shouldn't have any problems."

He looked at her and, realizing he had no choice in the matter, shook his head.

She followed them in.

The removal of the second tumor, as House predicted, was fairly routine. But the third tumor was proving more tricky, as it was lodged behind his thigh muscle. At one point, Hardy leaned in and said quietly to Hillman, "The muscle is half-atrophied as it is. Why don't we just remove the leg altogether?"

"I don't even know how the guy walks on this thing," Hillman said back.

"With a whole lot of pain," Hardy said.

They turned to Cuddy.

"We're going to have to remove the leg," Hardy said, like it was settled.

She squared her shoulders.

"Like hell you are," she hissed, with barely contained fury.

"Dr. Cuddy. Your boyfriend suffers from chronic pain, in case you hadn't noticed. And he's so stubborn, he thinks he's better off with this mangled limb. We'd be doing him a favor."

"That is NOT your decision to make!" she yelled.

"Funny, I actually thought it was," Hardy said.

"Save the leg, or I call in two different surgeons," she said, her eyes flashing. "And you can both start looking for new work, effective immediately."

Hillman and Hardy exchanged a look, then Hardy gave an irritated laugh.

"You're as stubborn—and crazy—as he is," he said, adjusting his surgical glasses so he could get a better look at the tumor.

######

House opened his eyes several hours later. Cuddy was curled up, asleep, in a chair she had pulled up beside his bed, still wearing her clothing from the night before, holding his hand.

When he woke, she stirred, woke up, too.

He immediately reached for his leg. When he felt it, his eyes fluttered and he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he croaked out. "I'm just so sor—"

"Shhhh," she murmured. She stood up, smoothed his hair, kissed his forehead. "Don't try to speak now. Just get some more rest. We'll talk about this later."

By the time he woke up again, it was the next night. Cuddy was sitting in the same chair, still in the same (now rumpled) clothing. She had bags under eyes. She was reading a book.

"Hi," he said to her.

"Hi," she said, surprised, putting the book down. "How are you feeling?"

"Relieved, grateful, bipedal."

She gave him a loving smile but then suddenly her face clouded, like a dark thought had just entered her mind.

"You idiot," she said. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"What happened to Nurse Cuddy who held my hand and kissed my forehead?" he said. "I liked her better."

"That was when you were still in critical condition. Now you're not. You lied to me."

"The truth didn't seem like it would go over that well: 'Hey, honey, I'm going to inject myself with an experimental drug, wanna watch?'"

"You're right. It wouldn't have. And we both know why."

"I take risks. I do it in my medical practice and I do it in my life."

"Not cute House."

"I'm not trying to be cute."

"You almost died—and for what?"

"So I could be pain free."

"That is such bullshit. Look, I know you're in pain, House. I know your leg hurts every minute of every day. I'm not diminishing that. But this all started because you couldn't run after a damn pickpocket in the park."

House's Adam's apple tensed in his neck.

"So what if it did? I want to be a whole man for you. Is that so hard to understand?"

"House, I don't care if you can run or not. I want you to be alive!"

House gave a half shrug, but didn't reply.

"Were you even in Richmond?" she asked, shaking her head.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Just not at the hospital. In a hotel room. That's where I first began injecting the compound."

Cuddy closed her eyes.

"I'm so mad at you right now, I could spit. Do you know what it was like for me, to walk in on you in that bathtub?"

"Horrible," he said guiltily. "It must've been horrible."

"It was the worst moment of my life."

He bowed his head.

"I'm sorry. I screwed up."

She gave a sad sigh. Her voice softened a bit: "Look, you're going to be okay and that's all that matters. But I've been sitting in this same chair for 18 hours. I haven't seen Rachel all day. I've got to go home and see my daughter and get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

She stood up, gave him a half-hearted kiss on the lips, and started to leave.

He grabbed her arm.

"I love you," he said.

"I know you do," she said.

####

"So I've been dying to ask you," Dr. Hardy said mirthfully to House, checking his chart. "Did you buy that home surgery kit at the Hobby Shoppe? Or did you find it at a yard sale?"

"Fuck you, Hardy," House said.

"Ah, feisty again. That's a good sign."

He adjusted House's IV drip.

"Can you bend the leg?" he asked.

House tried. "A little." Then he winced in pain.

"Not bad," Hardy said. "By the way, you can thank your insane girlfriend for that pain you're feeling right now. Or for the fact that you have a leg at all. Hillman and I were going to amputate—which was the medically sound thing to do, as you well know. Dr. Cuddy had a…I believe the professional term is 'cow.' Threatened to fire us both. It was very Joan Crawford meets Medusa."

House lurched forward, somewhat uselessly given his current state. "Say one more word about her and I will jump out of this bed and fucking end you," he snarled.

Just then Wilson walked into the room.

"Everything okay here?" he said, noticing House's coiled posture, and the obnoxiously smug look on Hardy's face.

"Patient is almost back to his old self," Hardy said, adding as he left: "God help us all."

Wilson shrugged, confused, and turned back to House.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not bad for a guy who operated on his own leg two nights ago."

"You're an idiot," Wilson said.

"That seems to be the consensus opinion."

"Why the hell did you do it?'

"My mom told me I could do anything if I really applied myself!" House said, with false cheer.

"I'm serious."

House rolled his eyes.

"Why do you think I did it, genius?"

"To fix your leg. Yeah, yeah, I get that. But you told me just a month ago that your leg hadn't felt this good in years."

"Domestic bliss will do that to a guy."

"So why this ridiculous stunt?"

House looked at the bed.

"Recent events made me acutely aware of my own inadequacy."

"The purse snatching thing?"

"That's what started it, yeah. But it proved to be true. Cuddy has looked at me differently these past few weeks. She finally sees me as a real man."

"Cuddy already saw you as a real man."

House shrugged. "But it's been better. _Everything _has been better—and yes, I'm talking about what you think I'm talking about."

"You're right," Wilson said, to House's surprise. "Your life would be better if you weren't a cripple. But your life is pretty fucking great as it is, much as it pains you to admit it. You're a world-famous doctor. You're dating the woman of your dreams—who loves you right back. Do you know how upset Cuddy was these last two days? Inconsolable. She wouldn't eat, she barely slept, she refused to leave your side. Maybe you should focus on what you _do _have instead of what you don't. I'm sick of this self-destructive crap."

And he stormed out.

House stared at the door for a second, scratching his head, until Cuddy appeared.

"Was that Wilson I just saw storming down the hallway?" she said. "It was all very dramatic."

"Yes," House said. "We had…words."

"A fight?"

"Not so much a fight. More like, he told me what an asshole I've been."

She sat down next to his bed.

"He does have a point," she said, taking his hand.

"I know," House said, looking down.

"How you feeling?"

"Fine now. That morphine stuff is as good as advertised."

"Was this all just an elaborate ruse to get back on pain meds?" she cracked.

"No," House said, seriously. "I'm actually planning on doing a little outpatient rehab after this, just to stay on the straight and narrow."

Cuddy nodded approvingly. "Good for you." Then she suddenly remembered something. "I brought you this." She pulled a piece of pink construction paper out of her bag. "A note from Rachel. Okay, dictated to me—but her words and original art. Should I read it?"

House nodded.

"Dear House,

Please get better and come home soon because I miss you because you are cute and funny and you make mommy and me smile and laugh all the time and we have fun.

Love,

Rachel.

p.s. You are a bloody scallywag."

She looked up. "I guess that last part is an inside joke," she said.

House laughed, "It is," he said. Then he frowned, "But _cute?_"

"Oh, trust me, cute is the highest form of three-year-old praise."

House took the letter from Cuddy, looked at it. There was a picture of a smiling family—man, woman, child, and dog—in front of a house.

"Is that me?" he said, pointing at the man, who seemed to be about 7 feet tall.

"Of course."

"And what am I holding? A gun?"

"That's your cane, silly."

"Ahhh," House said. "Also, we don't have a dog."

"Subliminal advertising," Cuddy said.

House smiled, carefully folded the letter and put it on the table next to his bed.

"Notice something Rachel didn't mention in her letter?" Cuddy said, leadingly. "Your ability to swing her around or crawl on the floor with her."

"Yeah," House said. "I picked up on that."

"And I don't care about that stuff either."

"But what about…other things?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"What, sex? Our sex life is and has always been off the charts. I thought you knew that."

"It's been better these past few weeks. Admit it."

"I'll admit no such thing. Each of my orgasms is like a beautiful snowflake. I love then all equally."

Then, slightly embarrassed, she glanced at the door. No one was there.

"Yeah?" House said, cocking an eyebrow.

"House, I told you. I love your body. I love what your body does to _my_ body. And trust me, my favorite part of your anatomy is definitely _not_ your leg." She gave him a dirty smile.

"Okay, I'm getting wood in a hospital bed. Probably not a good sign."

"Au contraire," she said, reaching between his legs. "A great sign."

"Not helping," he gasped.

She smiled, let go, sat back in her chair.

"House, to quote Billy Joel, 'I love you just the way you are.' So stop fucking things up!"

"I'll just…I'll never forget the feeling of helplessness watching that punk run off with your bag."

"House, I'm going to tell you a somewhat embarrassing secret, in the hopes it will make you feel better. Do you know what I was doing moments before that kid grabbed my purse?"

"Wishing you'd worn a fannypack?"

"I was fantasizing about our wedding. In that park."

He looked at her.

"Our…wedding?"

"Yes," Cuddy said, a slightly sheepish smile playing at her lips. "It got very elaborate. I had the bridesmaids outfits all picked out. Rachel was wearing a crown of flowers."

"_Really_?"

"I know, ridiculous. . .The point is—"

"Marry me," he blurted out, before she could finish her sentence.

She stared at him.

"C'mon, don't tease me."

"I'm serious. I love you. And Rachel. So much. I'm an idiot for not realizing how lucky I am. How happy I am. How great my life is. So marry me."

Cuddy didn't say a word, just kept staring at him, in shock.

"I hope to God that look on your face doesn't mean that—"

"Yes!" she said, leaping up from her chair to wrap her arms around him. "I will marry you! Yes!"

House laughed, hugged her back, kissed her neck.

"But not in the park," he said. "Too many bad memories."

"Not to mention the bugs," Cuddy said.

"And that crown of flowers idea is dumb."

"Hey!" Cuddy said, swatting him. Then she laughed, "But you're right. It is kinda dumb."

He laughed.

"I love you, my future wife," he said.

"I love you too, my idiot future husband."

THE END

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End file.
